


Look

by daleyka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Cock Slut Draco Malfoy, Crush, Denial of Feelings, Harry First Time M/M, London, M/M, Makeup, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Harry, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, POV Multiple, Sexual Fantasy, Shop worker Draco Malfoy, Stalking, Work In Progress, loitering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleyka/pseuds/daleyka
Summary: Harry stares at Draco. Draco finds it hard to believe there's anything to it except Potter being an irredeemable weirdo with some sort of personality problem; Harry finds it hard to believe there's anything that you can do with a man except f*ck them, since emotions, affection, and anything like that are far too complicated. He prefers to just look.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry wants to fuck Malfoy. Of that, he is quite sure. Fucking is easy to understand. He takes one look at the bastard, and he knows that he wants it. God, fuck Christ Merlin, but Malfoy is gorgeous. That blond hair, the curl of it, the way it catches the light as he walks – and the fucking fact that Malfoy _knows_ it does, because he always preens, walking like he’s not debased at all, not a creep, just letting the sunlight wash over him, glinting, dancing, chasing. His eyes, his body. His lips. He is beautiful. He knows it, he must know it.

Harry thinks, if he were a poetic man, he could write verses about the precise shade and colour of Malfoy’s lips when he isn’t using them to sneer or mock, when he’s just silent, lost in thought. They look so impossibly soft and pink. They’re begging to be kissed.

Although he watches him doing a lot of different things, Harry likes him best when he isn’t doing anything, if he’s honest. It’s as if Malfoy were a sculpture made in bronze, to be admired but not to exist in any other way. His perfection is in a lack of movement, when he is a frozen arch and line of form held suspended in time, forever beautiful, trapped in amber in that one perfect moment.

The problem is his voice. Harry doesn’t like his voice, doesn’t like its nasal upper-class drawl, which is affected, pointless and wanky. He just wants him to stand around and catch the sunlight in his hair. He doesn’t want to hear what he thinks, or how he came to be working where he is, or what he’s been doing for the last years prior to three months ago, when Harry first saw him, or anything like that.

Personal stuff like that gets in the way with normal men, so it’s certainly going to get in the way with Malfoy, given that he was an irredeemable, frightening tosser who joined a group of people who murdered Harry’s family and had a pretty good go at trying to murder Harry too. 

Once, Harry saw him yawn, cat-like, without self-consciousness, displaying a flash of a pink, smooth tongue. He thinks about it afterwards, can’t pull the image out of his mind. It plays back on loop. That tongue, Malfoy’s tongue, on his cock, his skin. The lick of it, the way it would flatten against him as Malfoy moved, up and down, wet, perfect.

In his imagination, Malfoy is compliant, all smooth grace and ease. Professionally assured, he gives Harry head without saying a word, moving organically in line and rhythm with Harry’s own body, easily, up and down. It’s just two bodies working in time, that’s all the fantasy is. He jerks off to it without so much as a thought for what either of them might say to each other, what might get them to the place where they fuck like this. It doesn’t matter. Harry doesn’t want to know the story. He just wants the sex.

Malfoy’s lips, face. His cock. The slight upward turn of his eyebrows in wry amusement when Harry finally comes, hard, down his throat.

Malfoy’s body gets him hot. That’s the simple truth. Watching him walk around doing absolutely nothing, not even speaking to Harry, just going about his fucking business like a normal man gets Harry fucking hot like he’s desperate for it. He has never felt so ridiculous about someone. It just burns. He wants things that –

Well, things that he can’t want. 

It’s easier to understand things with bodies than with the other stuff. Love, romance. Affection, even. He doesn’t know what to do about those, not in regard to men, anyway. He’s never found a way to describe and understand any of the the possibilities so that he could explain it to other people. It's all confused. What you're supposed to do, to want, to be. 

Bodies are so different. There’s no way not to know what he feels when he looks at him. Watching Malfoy, he can practically taste his desire, rising up unbidden. It’s something bitter and warming at the same time, some alcohol that turns his throat sour and warms him, that heat spreading outwards, burning, making him wilder and more certain, less able to pull back from the rawness of his need. He just _wants_.

But even when he just fantasises about him Harry hates himself, so he can only imagine what he’d feel like if he were to take this sick stuff further and spoke to the guy, propositioned him, made some kind of overture (and how would he even do that?) and they actually … cemented the deal. It would be carnage. It would be a disaster. 

He doesn’t even know if Malfoy is gay, although he assumes that he must be, because no straight man is that beautiful, could ever look the way that he looks. Nor does Harry know if he likes kinky stuff, if he’d want to have come all over his face, or he’d enjoy being tied up and recreationally Imperiused, or if he’s got the sort of morals that permit him to contemplate licking someone’s arsehole while someone else wanks him off and several young men lend their hands too. Does he want to be worshipped? Does he want to be demeaned?

For all Harry knows, he might be really boring in bed. He might just like a quick blowjob and a bit of anal then to roll over and go to sleep. How should he know what Draco Malfoy really is and what he really wants out of life? 

And anyway, the guy is a bad person, objectively a lousy, sad act human being who has nothing that Harry wants except bone and skin and muscle. That is what he tells himself. He is looking at a horrible person, an appalling bully, a coward, a liar, and someone who has consistently made every bad decision that a person could make. This man has never done anything good. The fact his hair’s the stuff of poetry, the fact that Harry could quite happy rim him until he cried, it’s … illusion. Surface. It isn’t _real._

Once he asked Hermione, casually, if a love spell could affect a person so that they were forced to fancy someone but not like them, didn’t actually want to _love_ them or be loved by them. She’d not understood at first, not quite, but then – with a moment of understanding that made Harry feel completely tragic – had said that of course there were spells that could cause desire, could amplify or cause sexual feeling, but mostly people didn’t use them because – what was that phrase she used?

Right, because _people tend to prefer love, if they’re going to go to all that trouble_.  
  
He probably prefers love too. It just isn’t possible right now to find it.

He just wants to fuck him raw. Bring him down, right down to the stuff of bone and meat and fuck him until there’s nothing left of the person that he really is, because that is what Harry wants him to be : someone else. Something. An object, an animal, a thing that can be fucked so that it doesn’t even matter.

There’s something nasty about it. Perverse. Harry tries so hard not to be perverse. He does like other people. He likes the normal things. Companionship, a nice smile, a cute guy with a cute little voice who wants to hold his hand. Sure, he likes that stuff. It’s good, great, brilliant.

But what it isn’t, and what it can’t ever be, is fucking someone the way that he imagines Malfoy might fuck him. Therein lies the problem. Maybe that’s what he wants. Someone who lets him be as perverse as he can fucking imagine down to the very depths of the worst things that he’s ever wanted. Someone who’ll let Harry come all over him, smear him with the stuff, who’ll be tied and gagged, who’ll crawl on his hands and knees, who’ll lie back and take it like a whore, who’ll just –

God. He isn’t going to think about it. He is going to… to… find a nice boyfriend. Someone cute and friendly and social and they’ll have great, decent sex of the kind that one is supposed to have and it’ll all be wholesome and fulfilling and brilliant.

Sure to fuck that’s what he’s going to do.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Potter is one of the world’s least circumspect individuals, that is certainly the truth. Draco supposes that he must, in his own mind at least, be subtle enough so that it isn’t mind-numbingly, pathetically obvious when he is watching someone, but if so, no one has ever done him the courtesy of disillusionment. In fact, he is transparent, pathetically unable to pretend anything of any sort. When he is watching someone, it’s written across his entire face that that is what he is doing.

What kind of Auror he is remains a mystery beyond the telling. How can someone like that lummox conduct surveillance? The idea is laughable. He has no tact, no subtlety, no ability of any kind to blend seamlessly into his surroundings without magical assistance. He occupies a tremendous psychological space. He is physically too present.

And he is always watching Draco. He doesn’t ever say anything, nor otherwise present any reason for this apparent all-consuming interest, but there he is anyway, glowering out of the corner of his eye, staring, staring. He never smiles, nor makes eye contact, nor approaches. He just looks on, witless oaf that he is. 

Draco tries not to mind. He doesn’t have the luxury of minding that sort of thing. His life has long since stopped its desperate revolution around the singular planet that is Harry Potter, and if the man is now prone to odd bouts of staring at him, he has to learn to let that be an uninteresting fact of his new life. He’s been focused on surviving, doing his absolute best to not balls up, to use the common vernacular, the precious small crumb of dignity and opportunity that he still has, and he’s made it work. The fact is that he is lucky, relatively speaking, to have a job, and luckier still to not be in Azkaban or worse; he has escaped not unscathed but at least free. If one of the downsides is that it brings him into contact with Potter and his ever-lasting glances, then Draco can live with that, he supposes, as long as Potter never goes anywhere further with it, never deigns to talk with him, or explain himself.

Still, he told Pansy about it, at one of their many meetings, all of which are dreadful since Pansy has no job, money nor future and she anticipates that Draco will somehow be able to fix this for her, because he had always fixed things for her in school and nothing he says, no plea, no reality he can propose to her, can ever shake her from her convictions that he must, deep down, have an answer for all of this. She raised her eyebrows and laughed.

‘He fancies you,’ she said, with a little bubble of rising laughter. ‘Isn’t that just the funniest thing? After all the time you spent -’ but then seeing Draco’s face she trails off, apropos of the awkwardness of the fact that if she infers anything further it will jeopardise the success of her subsequent request for money from him.

‘Well,’ she said, changing tack. ‘Perhaps you should enjoy it. Put on some cosmetics or something. Make him really goggle. I bet he’d be into it. The girly look, all fluttering eyelashes and long blond tresses. I could charm your hair again, you know…’

‘No,’ Draco said, batting her hand away before it could rise to touch his already more than acceptable hair. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Anyway,’ she had said, and Draco had known what was coming. ‘The thing is, I didn’t only ask you here to catch up on Potter’s latest. If you must know –‘

He’d stopped listening already. Whatever the reason was for which she needed money so badly this time, whatever the excuse she would make about it, there was truly nothing that Draco himself could do. The Malfoy assets were, it was true, technically his, but they were also frozen into solid ice, locked down in an interminable wrangling with the Ministry, the outcome of which was likely to be that they would be returned to the state anyway because no one was keen for someone like him to prosper. He was a millionaire in the sense that he owned millions of galleons; he was a pauper in the sense that not a single one of those was accessible to him, and between these two realities, the one in which he was a pauper would always win because it was simply more immediate and more important. No matter how he explained that to Pansy, she seemed impervious to it.

‘Yes but,’ she always said and then tried to say something about an advance or the Manor or Merlin knows what.

‘No,’ he always said, and he said it this time too. ‘I don’t have any money, Pans,’ he told her, bluntness being a part of his new life in which he could say true things, but he could have none of the things he wanted. 

‘But you must do,’ she said, her tone light, but somehow also rather haunted and desperate. Her sheen was certainly off these days, although she still used all her normal cosmetic charms; she looked older than her age. ‘You really must. You’re Draco Malfoy.’

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve explained it you a thousand times and I fail to see why you will not accept it as the truth. I do not have any money.’

‘Your flat,’ she said, vaguely, accusingly.

‘I was allowed to keep it,’ he told her, also not for the first time. ‘It was not requisitioned because it was the most modest thing we owned, and they perceived that penury and homelessness were too much even for a Death Eater. You know that. You were at the trial. It was just good luck.’

‘The words were too long,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t concentrate that day. I had such an almighty headache, Draco, all through that blasted trial.’

‘Don’t fucking talk like that, like a carefree debutante,’ he said, losing his cool all at once. ‘You can’t afford it. Pans, you’ve got to find work. Real work, not just cadging money from people. You do know that Theo isn’t going to keep you forever on his leash, surely? You’ve got to get a job and a flat.’

‘But how?’ she said, returning to her normal voice, and it came out almost like a cry. ‘I don’t know how.’

‘You’ll have to ask someone,’ he said. ‘I daresay there’s something you can do.’

‘Perhaps I should whore myself,’ she said, mostly to garner his attention and sympathy but not, he thought, only for that reason; there was something genuine in it, some sad, desperate thing that she couldn’t quite hide that made her aware that her skills were such that whoring might be one of her few honest options. Then she snorted, without any mirth behind it. ‘Perhaps you should. Maybe Potter’ll pay for a round or two. I hear he’s rolling in galleons.’

‘Yes,’ Draco said, because he’d heard that too. ‘But even if that’s true, I don’t think that’s why he’s staring at me.’

Still, the idea interested him afterwards, when he thought about it. What if, improbable as it seemed, Potter did, in fact, _fancy_ him? He’d thought it might be suspicion, paranoia, or even, in his wildest moments, some sort of goading technique from the Aurors to try to encourage Draco to slip up and commit a foul act against Potter so that he could be swiftly incarcerated; he hadn’t considered, even for a moment, that it could be sexual attraction that motivated the long stares, the pained glances at a distance.

Of course, Draco was desirable. He was not unaware of how he looked these days, and certainly he had offers from men at times, although not as many as he might have liked and too often from the wrong kind of men. He just hadn’t thought that Potter, of all people, would be interested in what he had. He didn’t even know if he was gay, since he never appeared in the press with anyone, and whenever he was walking around he was always conspicuously alone, ill-at-ease and moody, just as Draco remembers him from school.

Sartorially there’s nothing to suggest it either, since Potter is invariably dressed in the most boring way Draco could imagine, everything all tatty and thrown together. On the other hand, he’s been to too many wizarding salons of a certain repute to believe that a man being dressed in a seemingly straight manner is any indication at all of how he likes to get fucked of an evening. Draco has been fucked by men who look so straight that it’s almost as if they had dressed in character to prove a point. One of them, some bloke he met a long time ago now, had been working a suit and tie for work, and there was a hole in the armpit of his shirt that he hadn’t even noticed.

Draco found that sort of thing oddly charming, actually. A hopeless but affectionate type always got him where it hurt; some lummox of a lumbering farm-boy idiot, ideally but not necessarily a Hufflepuff, with a clueless smile and a big dick, that worked for him. They always fanned him with attention, amazed that he might return even a glimmer of their affection. He enjoyed it for what it was, which was just sex and possibly a few drinks and a bit of fun alongside. In a strange way, they reminded him of Greg and Vince, except he’d never been rogered by either of those two, thank Merlin. It was the same base sort of affection they provided, simplistic attachment to anyone who appeared to be more sparkling than they; a sort of limpet-style approach of hapless affection caused by proximity rather than selection.

Whilst on the whole his life was not fun, he’d found over the years that those sorts of things could be, if you didn’t expect anything, and you didn’t necessarily give them your real name and you ensured that you covered your forearm with a glamour charm at all times and you were rather quiet about your past and, if he is honest, you were at times under a full glamour charm so you looked like a different person altogether. Given a certain set of parameters, these things could be awfully fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much fun to write. Hopeless fools.

Tulliver’s is, generally speaking, a respectable establishment for the purchase of one’s more decorative, not to say frivolous, robes, shoes, and other garments such as might befit a young witch or wizard about the town. Draco, as such, tends to dress conservatively when he works there, bearing in mind his belief that while there is no dress code _per se_ , he ought not to bring his employer, whom he is highly fortuitous to have found, into any form of disrepute by creating an untoward impression that might jar with their general reputation and image. Of course, were Draco still in his former position, he himself would not have shopped at Tulliver’s, perceiving it to be undeniably lower middle class in its aspirations and style, but these things do change, don’t they, with one’s circumstances? Yes, surely Draco must conform to a general standard in this place, despite what might once have been strong reservations about the provenance of the shop, and therefore, as a rule, this is what he does. He mostly wears a range of black, grey, green, taupe, and thoroughly tedious clothes that are, whilst he hopes not truly repulsive to the eye, also not interesting in any particular sort of way.

Nevertheless, he wonders. The idea that Pansy planted has grown into something of an interest. He remains unsure what Potter intends to convey with his perverse and perpetual loitering, but there is indubitably an intrigue to the idea that it might be something as tawdry and simplistic as a desire for sex. It seems bizarre, but then again, Draco is a wizard and he has seen unicorns frolic unreservedly in enchanted glades under the light of a waning moon and he has seen Blaise Zabini’s cock, magically engorged to the size of a marrow, fuck its way through a very large and somewhat unappealing series of bewitched and trembling holes transfigured from what had once been rabbits, so in the end, perhaps one might say that anything is possible and Potter does, in fact, just want to fuck him?

There are ways and means, he concludes as he thinks on it, of identifying the truth of this matter. By far the simplest is, surely, to provoke him by – well – solicitation and implication? Draco has never, despite Pansy’s suggestion, been reducing to whoring himself, but he is familiar with the essential concepts of the practice of seduction, given that it is, after all, not all that different to his attending a club with a certain intention in mind, other than for the fact that money is not involved; he is sure that he is quite able to turn out in such a manner as to entice someone as utterly witless as Potter, whose tastes must, he thinks, lean towards the prosaic. If he can, to wit, entice a man to bed him in a club full of attractive men, he can surely entice Potter from a shop window. 

Yes, he thinks one Wednesday morning as he gets ready for work and is considering the possibilities arrayed before him, he can imagine what Potter will be interested in: something suggestive, flirtatious, with an implication of a certain strain of promiscuity and a willingness to fly in the face of convention, particularly of the stuffy wizarding sort that he worked so painfully hard to overthrow and in which cause he has succeeded so annoyingly well. He considers it. Is Potter the type of man to enjoy a gruff, black leather sort of affair, a scowling intensity, teenage sulking and brimming with fury? Ought he to enchant himself a tattoo?

He ought not, he thinks. Potter is most likely not interested in that particular shade of proclivity, given that he is so straight-looking and hopeless and heroic in his rather stereotypical and wooden sort of manner. He won’t want a scowling tattooed sort of bloke, and certainly not if that’s Draco, who, on reflection, really ought not to make a point of any sort of tattooing anyway, given that he’s got a buggering massive, ugly tattoo carved on his forearm that he can’t, no matter what he tries, ever charm away and which, if Potter were to have his attention drawn to it, is likely to be something of a mood-killer.

No, most probably what Potter wants is the fluffy crème vanilla delights of a man who makes his willingness to take cock entirely visible by a dash of makeup, a certain style, a flicker of good taste; in short, by the trappings of what might be considered, perhaps unfairly, as feminine artifice.

Draco is able, quite able, to achieve this sort of thing. In fact, he often does achieve it when he is not bound by the aforementioned strictures of his utterly non-Herculean labours in the shop. He owns Muggle eyeliner, of course. He owns lipstick and nail polishes and a range of things that wizards of his sort tend to find rather charming and niche. It isn’t altogether difficult in London, he has found, once one has rejected the core terms by which one has been raised, for one to find oneself in the cosmetics aisle of the establishment known as Boots and for one to make any sort of purchase of the necessary items that one might require to beautify oneself. Eyeliner with a little shadow, in particular, works very well on him and while he could cast a charm to the same effect, in the end he thinks that Potter will like it more this way, if it’s been applied _by hand._

After all, it gives an impression of a path of redemption, does it not, if he is to be a man who engages in Muggle pursuits? Whatever Potter is about, Draco is certain of one thing: he remains the Hero and Saviour, and heroes and saviours do not, even if they might enjoy a little arse-taking here and there, want to involve themselves with Death Eaters who are not, at the very least, thoroughly ashamed of themselves and pursuing some form of redemption and recompense for their crimes. Luckily, he can sincerely count himself within that number. He is thoroughly, miserably, and continually ashamed of himself. So on that score, he need not fret. 

On reflection, why not add what the muggles call highlighter to his cheekbones, which remain both prominent and appealing? He does, after all, know exactly how one applies Muggle makeup, and if he is going to attempt this, then why, as Theodore might once have said, not go the whole hog and have at it and some such phrases and blandishments. Draco is good with makeup. It does seem a pity not to show how very, very good he can be.

As for his hair, of course Potter is the sort of plebeian man whose tastes run to blond, of that there can be no doubt. Draco casts a charm on it, sharpening its colour to white champagne, giving it an extra edge of vivacity. The charm is difficult, but he’s had practice with cosmetics and glamours; far too much practice, if he’s quite frank, so these things are small fry to him. He lets it fall loose, which under normal circumstances he would restrict for the sake of decorum in the shop, but which in this case he considers to be an important aspect of proceedings, given that he suspects the way that the wind blows for Potter is likely to be feminine, a touch of the gamine young man with his pretty hair, edged off by the surprise sharpness of the makeup.

He comes to clothes, satisfied that he looks rather fey and intriguing, the slash of dark around his eyes drawing a portrait of a certain exoticism, the glow on his cheeks casting him into particularly attractive light. Draco owns a range of items in black leather, but he considers this to be too sudden a departure from his normal choices of attire. He doesn’t want to scare Potter off, of course. Just to test the water, as it were, of Potter’s pool of heterosexuality by dipping a well-manicured toe into its shallows. He decides to wear a well-fitted shirt and a pair of trousers that, while not precisely skin-tight, are also not precisely loose. Overall, these ministrations give an impression, he thinks, that surely no one could fail to interpret as somewhat homosexual and somewhat - somewhat, well, _keen_.

Not of course, that he considers himself keen. It’s merely a distracting research project with which he might waste a few of his pointless hours on earth, this whole affair with Potter and his staring. Even if the idiot were to march into Tulliver’s and demand immediately that attention be paid to his cock, Draco would not oblige for a golden pig. He merely wishes to _know_ if there might be such an option for his own amusement and gratification, and for his better understanding of the situation in which he finds himself.

Of course, there are risks being incurred in this plan. Although there is no clear routine to Potter’s singularly heinous brand of silent stalking, it does seem to be more likely, Draco has patterned, that he will be there on a Wednesday lunchtime, although for what reason this is true he could not say. Today is Wednesday, and thus he must place his hopes that Potter will actually _see_ this outfit, since Draco hardly thinks he can do this every day on the off-chance, for the sake of propriety and good will to his employers, and for his own sense of self-respect, which might be rather less these days but which does still, when it comes to the improbable nub of things, continue to _exist_ and which will not be benefitted by an array of gawping middle-aged wizards and witches asking him why he looks like a muggle and what happened to his eyes.

Nevertheless, he looks good. He knows he looks good, because on his way to work, which is an always annoyingly Muggle-themed walk given that he is forbidden to Apparate and Floo without reams of stamped and approved paperwork explaining his intentions, two men give him the once-over and several women fruitlessly attempt to catch his eye.

Surely, if at seven thirty on a Wednesday as he walks down a rainy and depressing Tottencourt Road, busy working men with jobs to go to and coffees to buy can still be prevailed upon to find him delectable, Potter will have no chance at all.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next time Harry passes Tulliver’s robe shop on Diagon, which he does quite often these days, he can’t help but notice that Malfoy is wearing… fuck it to hell, black eyeliner. The effect is disarming. It brings out his eyes, making them hyper-intense and still more beautiful than Harry could ever have imagined someone’s eyes as being. The way they are encircled in dark, the allure they seem to promise, makes him feel magnetised towards Malfoy. He has to almost physically restrain himself from taking a step closer to the window.

And his hair, usually at least partially gathered back, is looser, falling softly in front of his face. If he was good-looking before, he is now something beyond that. Well, well beyond.

He looks like a… a girl. No, not quite that but something in between girl and boy that makes Harry feel like he is falling too fast, because he can’t breathe. He just can’t breathe when he looks at him, not when he looks like that, Christ fucking Merlin. Malfoy looks really good.

Since Harry’s outside the shop at a cautious distance, and Malfoy is inside it, he can’t perfectly see what he’s wearing, but it looks to be … tighter than usual. It’s different, anyway. He usually dresses normally, a bit fancy perhaps, but then again, it’s a fancy robe shop so maybe that’s just the dress code there or something, Harry couldn’t say. The point is, he doesn’t usually wear fitted things that seem to draw attention to the sheer bloody perfection of his body in such a way that they must be planned to do exactly that.

Of course, Harry isn’t going to go _in_ to find out exactly what the fucker’s wearing. He doesn’t have the time, for one thing, since he usually comes here on his lunch break and he’s supposed to be back in the office in a few minutes. It is true that he does also sometimes frequent the street after work, and sometimes even before work, because he’s found that if he gets there around eight, there’s a chance that Malfoy will be there, visible through the window of the still closed shop, setting up for the day, looking quiet and tired. In those moments, Harry finds it harder to watch him. It seems more personal somehow, more like an intrusion than when he is on full display, working, available to his customers. 

Harry has a rule to never go more than once in a day, and never more than three days in a week. Surely that’s discrete? He always has his excuse ready, should anyone ever ask about why he is there. It is, in a sense, on his way to the Ministry if he walks part of the way, and he enjoys walking a bit rather than Apparating everywhere all the time, so …

Fuck it, whatever. God, the way he looks today. It’s just not reasonable for a man to look like that. Harry knows from Muggle magazines and that sort of thing that some men do wear eyeliner and make-up, but he hasn’t seen them in real life, certainly not at the Ministry.

Not only does it look compelling, it also makes him recalculate every fantasy he’s imagined, because if Malfoy is now the type of man who’ll wear this, if he’s up for donning Muggle makeup at work, what the hell else might be he willing to do? Who _is he_?

It’s one thing to fantasise. Fantasy is self-contained and controlled and, in many ways, safe. In Harry’s head, Malfoy has sucked him off a thousand times in the obscenest of ways. He’s gone down on Harry in public, under his invisibility cloak, while Harry himself is visible and forced to smile and make conversation with others, all the while as he is desperate, desperate to tip his head back and cry out, as Malfoy licks and sucks and works on him. He has lain back on the bed and let Harry fuck into him so hard that his fingers grip against the mattress and he screams, strains against bonds that Harry has imposed, he’s –

He’s done things. Everything, anything. In Harry’s head, it’s all possible. The problem is, in his head, Malfoy’s never worn eyeliner and he’s never looked like that, because Harry hasn’t ever been able to imagine anything like it. Fantasy is limited to the experience of the person doing the fantasising, which now, looking at Malfoy, strikes Harry as something of a serious limitation to the pursuit.

Today, there is for the first time the reality that Malfoy might _actually_ do all the things that Harry wants him to do, that he might, in fact, be up for things that aren’t normal for wizards, and are well outside of what might be expected. It introduces the perspective that no matter what he fantasises, Malfoy might be a… a real person with real ideas of his own.

The thought is terrifying.

And then, Merlin fuck a crup, he looks over to Harry directly and – Malfoy does this _thing._ It’s a look, one Harry has never seen before on him, not since school anyway and therefore not when he has been an adult and when he has looked like this. There is something direct and challenging, clearly purposeful in his gaze. There is no possible mistake, because he looks Harry right in the eye, stares at him, pins him to the spot. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at Harry, expectant, questioning, wanting something in return. _Come over_ , his expression seems to say. _Make it my problem, Potter. Come over here and tell me exactly what you want to do to me._ Combined with the eyeliner and the hair, it – it –

Fuck it. Harry turns tail and runs, or perhaps one might better say strides away, hot-footing it towards the Ministry as quickly as he can without seeming to actually be running.


End file.
